


Our Kisses Are Doused In Blood

by stannigram



Series: Our Kisses Are Doused In Blood [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Eventual Sex, M/M, Murder Husbands, Romance, Slow Burn, Threesome - M/M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, will tag as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stannigram/pseuds/stannigram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal cherishes these moments when he can lie in between two sleepy men without having to disguise the monster that hides inside him. These moments in which he can revel in the fact that he has corrupted two beautiful creatures into something just as black and disgusting as him. When he feels most at ease with what he has done to keep his beautiful creations near him. When he can feel most proud for creating them, and everything he had to do to keep them near him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Hannibal kisses the boy lying next to him. Dragging his tongue along the boy’s alveolar ridge, memorizing every depression and crevice of the hard muscle, tasting the sleep on the boy’s tongue. For now this will do for him. This will satisfy his undying hunger to eat the boy up.

He imagines, briefly, how well the boy would taste doused in that wonderful cranberry sauce he served to Jack last week. The pink meat of his thighs contrasting nicely with the red of the sauce, a piece of culinary art work in itself. One he would relish in the warmness of his mouth. One he would share with Will over some wine on a cold winters night. He feels something stirring beneath his pants at thought of it.    

Smiling, he withdraws his tongue from the boy’s mouth. His tongue lingering on the blue veins enclosed by the pale cells of the boy’s neck, lapping at thick pulsing veins in attempt to taste the blood they entrapped. Nipping harshly at juncture of the boy’s neck. Watching as red blood wells through the marks his teeth has made of the boy’s skin. Licking it up and reveling in the taste and feel of it on his tongue.

He feels hands slowly moving up the soft fabric covering his thighs. Feels the hard line of a man pushing into his back. Leaving heated touches trailing up his legs and heat pooling in his groins. The hands have found themselves under Hannibal’s pajama shirt, giving a hard pinch.  

“Stop it Hannibal.” Will huffs out, annoyed, as he pulls Hannibal closer to him. “Stiles and I are trying to sleep. We have class tomorrow.”

Hannibal frowns but ceases the movements of his mouth, pulling both of his lovers closer to his body. He places a kiss to both of their heads and settles in between them for sleep. Will’s hand is still warm against his stomach and Hannibal moves his hand down to intertwine it with his own. Stiles, in his sleep, has wiggled a leg in between Hannibal’s, and his foot is rubbing tiredly against Will’s toes.  

Hannibal cherishes these moments when he can lie in between two sleepy men without having to disguise the monster that hides inside him. These moments in which he can revel in the fact that he has corrupted two beautiful creatures into something just as black and disgusting as him. When he feels most at ease with what he has done to keep his beautiful creations near him. When he can feel most proud for creating them, and everything he had to do to keep them near him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Will focuses on the kid sitting on the other side of the small café, just a few tables away, flailing as he talks animatedly to the others occupying the table around him. Will has never seen them before, for the table is usually only occupied by the somber presence of the kid burying his head in the enormity of his textbooks.

He isn’t happy they are there. He had been planning for weeks to buy the kid a drink, and he had finally plucked up enough courage to ask him. It was only his luck that the kid would have hoard of people to protect him from people like Will. There are six of them in total. One with a mop of curly brown hair, one a girl snuggling up into him with black hair, another a body of muscle with a brooding face, another a pretty red head with a killer fashion sense, and a short tan male who kept hanging of the kid.

Will can’t stop staring at the boy’s plump lips. The kid is teasing him, he knows, by the way the kid runs his tongue slowly along his straw. Stopping to swirl his wet along the rim, chasing the straw and sucking hard, cheeks hollowing out in the most lewd way possible. Will has to remind himself where he is, and looks away to avoid any awkward body parts from peaking in heated interest.

Will buries his head in the files he had brought with him. They are about some local girls who have gone missing. No one had found the killer yet and Will has been tracking the case like a hound dog. He hoped to make a seminar out of it for his students, and as he sat he began reconstructing the facts in his mind.

When he resurfaces, the group of kids is no longer crowding around the table. They are leaving out the door, but the boy lingers behind, waiting in line for a desert. He grabs the sack and turns to leave, briskly passing by Will’s table. His hips move in rhythmically tandem, pulling Wills eyes to them in ruthless fascination.

The boy catches Will’s admiring eyes as he walks by, winking at him.  Will feels his embarrassment flushing his cheeks as the straw drops out of his mouth, and the files drop to the ground. Scattering classified papers across the blue tiles of the Café in a flurry.

“You dropped this.” The kid says as he collects the papers from the floor. Eyes glinting mischievously as he catches the gruesome pictures depicting violent deaths, and then he is saying curiously, “Are these files about the missing girls who are all over the newspapers?” Will doesn’t saying anything, trying not to perve out on the kid as his sweeps his pink tongue across his bottom lip. His teeth catching his bottom lip in hesitant uncertainty before he is moving closer to Will with a small smile. 

The boy sits down, smirking, and begins expressing what he believes has happened to them. Will tries to tell him that he can’t discuss the case with anyone who is not working on the case. The kid dismisses Will’s fears and makes a point to show Will where he missed some evidence, some clues, some tiny bits of crucial information. It’s refreshing to see a new perspective on the case and soon Will is relaxing in the quiet quibbles of the boy’s rambling.   

Soon the papers and pictures are sprawled out across their table, and Will is scratching his stubble, because how could he miss _that_. There are marks and scratching all through out the papers. Lines sketched hurriedly, as the boy explains, linking men to woman and dates to places. The boy’s explanations aren’t concrete and many are flawed but the Will can see the unbridled genius waiting to be cultivated under the surface of his skin.

 The waiter, disrupting their talk, comes around as the sun is setting. Eyes the papers with disgust and asking icily if he can get them anything else. Will does end up buying the kid, Stiles, a Frappuccino and the kid promises he won’t tell a living soul about the files or the case.

The boy invites himself to Will’s house without asking. Will should be exasperated, really he should, but the company is nice and he spends the night not feeling completely and utterly alone so he doesn’t complain. He just snuggles further into his couch as the kid sleeps quietly next to the burning fire.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles is aware this could potentially turn into a dangerous situation. Knows that walking into the house of a man who studies killing for a living can very possibly result in his own body mangled and bloodied in the darkness of a bathroom. But, Stiles has never been known for playing it safe, he liked dancing with danger. It was thrilling, and it is how he ends up sprawled across a complete stranger’s floor.

He stretches while the scorching fire warms his body, his shirt riding up to reveal the paleness of his thigh. He smiles because he can feel Will’s eyes training on his exposed skin. The smile growing bigger when he sees Will lick his lips and his eyes dilating in the glow of the fire. It turns mischievous as he gets an idea in his head, running his hands slowly over the silky flesh, catching the hem of his jeans, pulling them down teasingly. It was all very subtle, at least that's what he likes to think, and he pouts at Will who fidgets uncomfortably on his couch.

Stiles laughs and turns on his side to pay attention to the low voice graces his ears from across the room. They make light conversation for awhile, and Stiles decides he has no reason to be afraid of this man strangling him in his sleep so he turns back around to face the fire. He zones out as he watches the flames dancing across the dying embers in the hearth. The quietness of Will’s voice lulls him to sleep.

 

Stiles had been watching the man from the first time he had seen the brown curly mop walking through the door of the small café. The man was quite nice to look at with his adorable little glasses and man scruff. The man was old enough to be his dad, and it showed in those damned grandpa sweaters he wore all the time. Stiles didn’t care, he was quiet aware of the ‘daddy issues’ his loins had harbored since he was sixteen. He had spent quiet sometime exploring that aspect of his life with Derek and Peter so he didn’t freak out when he had felt his attraction towards the man growing.

He would have felt creepy because he had practically stalked this guy for the past few months, but he had practically learned from the best. It never stopped him from showing up a few minutes after class got out, and he always ended up doodling in his criminal justices book as he waited for the guy to show up. He kept telling himself that he would man up and ask the guy if he could by him a cup of coffee. He could never get up enough courage to walk those few short steps to him though.

So, he spent most of his nights crying to Lydia over phone about the mysterious guy’s gorgeousness. Comparing him to the likes of Adonis and telling her how his curly locks would make any Greek god jealous. He described all the little quirks he had picked up on: how the guy couldn’t look anyone in the eye, how he sat alone at his little table away from everyone else, the way he order his coffee black with only one package of sugar to sweeten it up, and downed three Aspirin with it. He depicted all his fantasies involving them, each involving the guy buying Stiles a frappe—he liked that in a man, okay. One day, finally, she told him to grow a pair or she was going to grow some for him.

Unfortunately, he never did grow a pair and that is how he found himself sandwiched between Scott and Lydia while his man was all the way on the other side of the room. He hadn’t been expecting the Pack to show up, especially after everything that went down before he had left, everything he had put them through. He wasn’t exactly ecstatic they were here, either, because today was the day he was going to ‘accidentally’ bump into sweater guy. But, he smiled and laughed and played nice, even though he was so far from welcoming this back into his life. The only thing that got him through it all was catching the guy staring at him, and playing a horrible tease. Stiles lingered behind when everyone leaves. He had spent many days planning this and he’d be damned if he didn’t get that damn coffee. He spends sometime at the counter, ordering nonsense just to have something to do. The scone is hot in his hands. He can smell the blueberries wafting beneath the pastry packaging. Honestly he gets to distracted by it that he doesn’t see the table in front of him. Knocking sweater guys files out of his pale hands. He picks the papers up and inserts himself in the little alcove the table is in.  They spend sometime talking about the case, and Stiles peacock his knowledge to the other man. He got that damned coffee.

 

A warm tongue laps at his cheek. In his sleep hazed mind he finds it odd that the man has taken this step so quickly. Whatever, he can go with the flow—a flow he was so desperate to get in.

A human nose it is not pressing against him when he opens his eyes, though. Instead there is runny snout and a furry golden face staring back at him. Stiles pets the dogs head. Lola is her name, he thinks. Her name doesn’t matter though because she happily waggles her tail and lies down beside him. Stiles nuzzles up next to her because it’s been awhile since someone had willing lied next to him. It’s pathetic he knows, but he pushes those thoughts away as he attacks the dog’s belly playfully.   

Will is laughing and smiling in the living room doorway. He must’ve changed during the night because his pants and sweater are gone, and in their stead are some boxer shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Stiles can’t stop staring at the guy’s crotch, and Will is smiling shyly as he says, “Uh, I made breakfast.”

Stiles nods. Slinking up from his spot on the floor in a mess of arm and leg. They make their way to the kitchen and Stiles stomach grumbles, as he smells the aroma of eggs and sausages coming from the room. Will pulls out some plates to put the food on, and Stiles makes himself a cup of coffee. He sips at it until he catches the time on the wall.

“Shit, I am going to be late!” Stiles says spilling coffee all over the counter in his haste to get out of the house.

He is moving the coffee cup into the sink, and Will is slipping a piece of paper in his pant pocket. Stiles stops and smiles a little. Then he is off and fading in the early morning sun.


	4. Chapter 4

Will is a nervous wreck for the rest of the day. He feels like the night went well, but maybe breakfast was too much too fast. Or, maybe it was the fact he had practically pounced around his house naked with a complete stranger in his presence. Yes, Will thinks, that is probably why the boy hadn’t texted him yet. It is probably why the boy left in such a state. Will had just moved things to fast and messed up again.

Of course there are the more likely—and more liked—hypotheses that the boy probably had not felt the paper Will had slipped in his pant pocket as he hurried out the door. It was even more likely that the boy had been at school all day, and simply had not found the time to text him yet. At least that is what Will argued to himself as he checked his phone for the tenth time that morning.

His students take notice of his absentmindedness, and they bring it up during their discussions. He realizes then that the debate on whether the boy will decide to text him or not must wait because his job depends on its postponement. He submerges himself in murder, bloodied bodies, graphic decapitations, and some of the works of the most gruesome artist to have ever lived. Serial killers and sexual fantasies together never quiet got Will all hot and bothered so he uses that knowledge to combat the increasing images of prefect pink lips on him and long fingers tugging at his boxers. He survives his next class with as little mortification his betraying loins will permit him.

Will reworks everything that he could have done wrong in his short periods of rest between classes. Nit-picking their first conversation, and wishing he had spent more time weaning information about the boy instead of talking about kidnappings. Berating himself for not being a proper gentleman and not inviting the boy to his house first—or offering him a bed. Despising himself for making breakfast for the boy and traipsing around the house half naked before they had gotten to that level of comfortable in their newfound friendship. An examination of all the evidence shows Will what a jerk he had been, and he begins to feel like he wouldn’t even call himself if he had been in Stiles’ place. 

The ting signifying he is receiving a new text message pulls him from his contemplation of their whatever this is. He fumbles the book in his hand and knocks the his papers on the Dupree murders in his rush to pick up his phone, to see if its him. A strong sense trepidation sets in when he realizes it is form Alana, and not the person he wants to hear from the most. He replies to her text, anyway. A message to confirm their plans for this evening, and telling her he will meet her at TJ’s by five o’ clock that night.

He passes the rest of the day somewhere between the states of self-loathing and boyish optimism. Classes drone on and he can’t focus well enough on the materials to do any good for anyone. A growing anxiety is slowly eating away at his mind and he can’t teach over the horrible feeling consuming him—he ends up cancelling classes for the rest of the day under the pretense of sudden illness, and when he finally packs up his things to leave the university, he is relieved.

 

Will almost stands Alana up. Almost. He really would have if it weren’t for the fact that she kind of scared him silly most of the time, and setting around waiting for the kid to call him was driving him insane.

So, that is how he ends up drinking his second Scotch as he waits for her in the haziness of the old bar. The bartender has hepatitis C judging by the yellowness of his eyes and the rash on his hands. The guy next to him has recently lost his wife and is currently seeking comfort in bottom of a bottle—maybe two or three by the state he is in. There is an older woman on the other side of the bar that ate an omelet for breakfast and the little pieces had stuck between her teeth are the only evidence that remain.

Alana shows up a few minutes after five. She apologizes; she was stuck in traffic. He orders her a beer, a darker one, as she situates her fitting skirt next to him. She takes a sip as the bar keep hands it to her, and then she is talking to him about a interesting journal article she had read recently on Cotard’s Syndrome.

He is only half paying attention to what she is saying because they phone in his pocket lays heavily against his thigh. He was starting to imagine things that are not particularly acceptable when sitting next to your lady friend, and he almost cries when the phone vibrates against his thigh.

“Yes, this is him. Oh, yes, Friday at five thirty sounds good. Yes, I’ll pick him up. Say around 4:30? Yes, sounds tell him I will see him then. Okay, bye.”

Alana raises her eyebrows. Will looks down in embarrassment as he admits, “I have a date Friday night.”

A smile slowly spreads across her face and she pats him on the back. Then she slowly starts probing him for information, and Will gives her it. He tells her about the boy from the coffee shop with the perfect lips and stupidly perfect hair. Tells her about the kid staying the night and not calling him all day. Explains the crippling fear that he had messed things up before they had even had the chance to start their relationship, and Alana tells him he obliviously didn’t mess up because he snagged a date. And, yeah, he guesses it is.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles sits in his car twirling the piece of paper in his fingers. He doesn’t know if he should he text Will know or later. He never really had this, this kind of slow build up to a relationship. Derek usually just threw him up against walls, and Peter, well, it was usually just sex with him. There were no butterflies and nervous feelings with them, and this feeling is completely foreign to him so he isn’t sure what exactly what to do about the piece of paper in his hand.

Sighing Stiles pockets the paper and shoulders his heavy backpack as he runs towards the academy. He is already late and his professor is has policy: five minutes and then the doors are locked. Stiles doesn’t make it in enough time so he hangs around the food court—catching up on the breakfast he had missed—before his next class. Some friends of his find their way towards him as he waits. They surround him and the noise of their conversation swallows up his impending panic.   

His friends are talking next about their reading assignment from last night. Something about the decay rate of a body exposed to some accelerant that he isn’t even going to try to pronounce. He should be listening—since he had blown off his studies in favor of some quality Will time, but he was a little more interested in the paper sitting heavily in his hand.  

One of the girls rips the paper out of his hand after she had asked him a question for the fifth time, and picks up Stiles’ phone out of the mass of mobiles clattering their table. She punches in the numbers, and places the phone to her ear before Stiles can even reach for his phone.

“Hello. Yes, is this Will Graham? Stiles expects to see you at the movies at five on Friday. Oh? You’ll be picking him up at 4:30? Fantastic. I’ll make sure he saves the date,” she says ending the call and handing the phone back to Stiles.

Smiling smugly she gloats, “that's how it’s done girls.”

 

Stiles should be happy they are here, except he is really, really, really not. He doesn’t understand it really. How they can be camped out in his living room watching Doctor Who re-runs when he had left on such horrible terms with all of them. How or why Derek is leaning against the counter offering him a cup of coffee with a smile on his face. Why Isaac was patting at the empty spot for him to sit and join them.

Maybe they were desperate for a human to stabilize their Pack, or maybe they just missed who Stiles used to be. But things couldn’t go back to the way were before—he couldn’t go back to the way he was before—and not having Peter’s snarky commentary feeling the silence reminds him of that blearing fact.

It is only made worse when he comes home from a long day of studying to find them sitting around the tiny table he worked hard to pay for. It hurts because he has to fake a smile or a laugh with them when all he really wants to do is crawl under his futon and cry. He doesn’t have any patience for pretending today. No strength to force a smile and play nice with them. He choses instead to text Will flirty comments

So when Scott starts hanging on him and Isaac snuggles up against him, he pushes them away in favor of his textbook. Telling himself they will be gone in a week as he buries his head into his copy of Insect Activity: As Indicator of Time of Death. Not exactly thrilling, but he needs the extra credit if he wants to impress Jack Crawford and join his ranks.

He is half way through the section on maggot development when he realizes just who is taking him to the movies tomorrow night. Will fucking Graham: the man who wrote a whole book on the decomposition of human flesh and its ability to attract bow flies, the man who saw into serial killers minds, who lived serial killers lives, the man the whole academy thought belonged in Baltimore’s Institution for the Clinically Insane. 

He feels any hope for tomorrow being a better day slowly fading away in his realization because, shit, ending up dead in a bathroom had just become a very really possibility.

 

Stiles tells them to behave one last time as Lydia works her finishing touches on his clothes—he doesn’t want to come home to a house trashed by solo cups and beer pongs. They all nod and tell him he looks hot. That he is going to rock mysterious guys night. He sighs in frustration, because all though he is still technically a horny teenager he doesn’t whatever he has with Will to be purely sexually like his last two relationships.

And then his phone is ringing and he is out the door faster than he should be. He hopes the Pack takes his quick retreat as the giddiness from his date, and not his excitement to get away from them. All that floats away when he sees Will’s grandpa sweater and glasses. All the pain from the Packs reappearance melts away as Will smiles nervously at Stiles. Stiles smiles back as he gets in the car and Will’s nervousness wanes. He gets comfortable in the plushness of the car seat and gets ready for the long drive ahead.

Not that he isn’t guarded, he is very aware of the body signals Will is giving off but none of them seem threatening so Stiles relaxes into his seat. They talk idly, shy, and quietly about their weeks. Until Stiles becomes brazen, expressing his extreme discomfort of his old friends occupying his new apartment and all the pretenses that came with it. Will seems to understand and offers suggestions for Stiles to take—not good ones, though Stiles thanks him anyway.

They end up at the movies, purchase their tickets, and wait in line for popcorn and drinks. Will buys those little chocolate covered raisins and Stiles tells him he is gross. The older man laughs and hands Stiles a basket of curly fries to shut the boy up.

Things get awkward after the lights go down. Neither of them is sure what to do when their hands accidentally push against each other’s when either of them reaches for some popcorn.

All Stiles wants to do is intertwine his fingers with Will’s, but he isn’t sure it is okay, if it is to early. He spends more time shooting glances at those hands then actually watching the movie, and before he knows it is over. He is glad Will doesn’t ask what he had thought about the movie because, honestly, Stiles had no idea what the plotline was or if the acting was any good.

They end up back at Will’s house because it’s closer to than Stiles’ house and its late. They pass through the door in comfortable silence until Will’s energetic dogs attack them.

Stiles had decided halfway through the movie that Will wasn’t going to kill him. That bitter people who couldn’t understand the power of his gift made up those mean rumors about him. Figured he might even seem like the bad guy here because he is stalking Will into his room without Will’s permission. Will has this funny little smile plastered on his face so he doesn’t feel so bad.

Then Will is stripping out of his jeans and all conscious thoughts flee Stiles’ mind. He hears himself muttering something about taking things to fast but Will shoots him a look and tells him it is either the bed or the couch. Stiles doesn’t want to sleep one the couch so he strips out of his own jeans and plops down on the bed next to Will.

They stare at each other, smiling shyly. Stiles wants to lean over and taste that kiss, but he restrains himself by reaching the short distant to Will’s open palm. He feels the warmth of Will’s palm pressing against his. It lulls him to sleep, and for the first night in a long while he sleeps peacefully without nightmares to disrupt him. Instead he dreams of Will’s calloused hands rubbing against him and his adorable smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the pack, they are about to disappear for a really long time but they are going to be important for later purposes in the series. ;) Anyways, Hannibal makes his appearance next chapter, and the the really fun stuff starts to happen!


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles is great. He brings Will dinner almost every night after their first ‘date,’ and always provides intriguing questions about decomposition rates and how they attract maggots. They spend many nights discussing insect activity as an indicator of death over warm meals, and he doesn’t feel bad for acting strange because Stiles doesn’t really seem to care. In fact he seems to even find it attractive and welcomes it even though he teases Will about his weird hobbies from time to time.

He waits to tell Stiles about his ability to reconstruct a crime scene in his head. Waits to tell him about the serial killers he could easily inhabit in the darkness of his mind because he is afraid of what Stiles will say. If Stiles will turn Will away like so many others before him by calling him a freak, and he fears that more than ever before because Stiles had managed to worm his way into Wills life in the short amount of time since that fateful day at the coffee shop. Will couldn’t imagine what he would do without the boy cradled up against him as they watch the embers dancing in hearth from their position on the couch.

He accidentally lets it slip when they are out at dinner once, and Stiles just smiles and grabs his hand. It was not intentional. The conversation was so easy that the words had rolled easily of his tongue. Stiles had just smiled and said he known already, but he was ecstatic that Will had finally told him anyway.

 

Will isn’t sure if they are moving to fast. Stiles stays the night frequently but it is all very platonic like when boys stay the night at the best friend’s house, and they build pillow forts together in their bedroom while their moms make them hot chocolate and s’mores. Which they had done countlessly in Will’s living room, under Stiles’ insistence, only to have their efforts destroyed by Will’s excited dogs.

They haven’t discussed ‘them’ yet. Will isn’t sure if they are still in the friendzone or if they have reached boyfriend status just yet. What he does knows, though, is that Stiles likes curling around him during the night, face buried in his shoulder, and body pressed flush against him. He also knows Stiles likes to tease, running his hands tauntingly down his thighs as he strips out of his jeans for the night. Whenever it comes down to it, and they lay legs tangled and all wrapped up in each other, their hands never stray below the lining of their boxers.

Stiles even takes him to see his friends off at the airport. He is not sure if Stiles brings him along for the emotional support, or for an excuse to leave the airport a little faster than he should.

He watches as Stiles hugs them all goodbye, and promises to keep in touch. It is a lie though, and he can see that none of them will put in the effort if Stiles does not either. It is kind of sad to see relationships crumbling before his very eyes and he just kind of stands there waiting to leave while Stiles stands putting on false pretenses.

The whole thing is terribly awkward and he is not happy enough when the boy grabs him by the arm, and leads him out of the airport and away from everything. Though, when they reach the car and Stiles starts sobbing he prays to anything and everything that he could be back watching Stiles’ friends wave goodbye.  

He isn’t sure what to do besides to pull the boy in close and hold him until he has done his crying. So he does, and when the boy has finished he wipes his snot on Will’s sweater. Will thinks he gets it as they clumber into the car. Thinks he understands why Stiles brought him along. Thinks that maybe it was a way for Stiles to let go of the things from his past dragging him down, and Will was the one thing tethering him to the future. Will quiet likes the idea of it, being Stiles future and it makes it sounds that much closer to boyfriends so he revels in the feeling.

 

Jack Crawford has called him to the academy to help with the Elise Nichols’ case. There are pictures of eight other girls pinned to a corkboard with thread connecting each one to a scene, and a man Will has never seen before sits comfortably in the chair next to him.

The man is very attractive. He is dressed in a suit that flatters his figure nicely. His lips are just as perfect as Stiles, maybe even more so. He wants to feel them against his skin, to catch them in between his house Will feels bad because he wants to do to this man’s lip’s the same things he want to do to Stiles’, and he shouldn’t be having these feelings about this man too.

The man catches his roving eyes and smiles in amusement. Smug bastard. Will can tell he isn’t going to like him. He can tell already by the way the guy smiles and his teeth show. It does things to Will that he doesn’t want to admit to while they are talking about a serial killer that steals young women to do god knows what with. It is hardly appropriate for his lower parts to be showing interest at this moment.  

Jack tells him that the man is a consulting psychiatrist for the bureau and has offered to perform a psych analysis for them. Who exactly the doctor is preforming the psych analysis on is never mentioned, but Will presumes it is the serial killer they are searching for. He finds out quickly this is not so, and it is actually he who is the subject of this psychiatrist inquiring eyes.

He leaves angrily in a flurry, but not before vehemently telling Jack his thoughts on the case.

 

“What an asshole.” Stiles interjects after Will has recounted his ordeal with Jack and the psychiatrist. Will hums in agreement as he keeps his eyes on the road, watching for any stray animals that might walk across the road in the safety of the dark.

Stiles rambles on about their, as he puts it, ‘douchebaggery.’ Will uses the boy’s nonsensical words and soothing voice to ease the unease mounting the carefully place wards in his mind. He won’t voice it but the Nichols case has gotten under his skin. He can’t explain it but something about it has left him feeling anxious about what is to come. Like he had missed something clearly important and it was about to come at him full force.

Stiles spots it first, a yellow lab covered in mud. He points out how hollow it looks. The way its bone stick out under its matted hair, and the way his legs wobbled as he walked slowly down the steet. Stiles and Will agree that they have to take it back to Will’s house, and that's how they end up cleaning it on the front porch as all of Will’s dogs watch om from the house.

“What should we name him,” Wills asks Stiles as he cleans the fur of the filth the dog is covered in.

“Something fierce like Gruffles?” Stiles offers as he sips at Will’s scotch from his perch on the porch. Will raises his eyes and Stiles shrugs.

“Winston,” Will suggests, “I like Winston.”

“Winston is good. Don’t know why you wouldn’t want a dog named Gruffles, but you know, whatever you want man. It’s your dog.”

Will shakes his head and laughs. Introducing Winston to the rest of the dogs and making him feel like part of the family. Once he is done Stiles hands him his scotch and pushes Will down into a chair. The boy’s head ends up nestled on in Will’s lap, and his hands gently rub Will’s claves as the watch the dogs snuggle up to each other. Will threads his hands in the boy’s hair, smiling because he had found a family in this boy and makeshift pack of stray dogs crowding his porch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, we might get a kiss next chapter. Might not. What do you think? Is it too fast?


	7. Chapter 7

Will’s hands gently card through his hair, fingertips messaging lazily against his scalp, slipping down to rub lightly on his neck while Stiles sneaks sips of his Scotch. Gruffles is nuzzling up to the other dogs, and Stiles rubs his hands soothingly up the older man’s legs as they watch the dogs cuddling on the porch.

He is eye level with Will’s crotch. So close to it that he sees the outline of the older man's cock in those loose fitting jeans. So close that he could press his nose against it if he wanted too. So close that when he breaths his warm breath makes Will squirm underneath his chin. He likes the way it makes the older man’s breath hitch and his hands squeeze the chair as he restrains himself from bucking his hips into Stiles face. So he angles his head just right, chin heavy in Will’s lap, and breaths long and hard into the fabric of the older man’s thigh.

Will grips his hair, pulling him up against his body, and situating Stiles on his lap. Stiles feels the hard line of the older man’s crotch pressing against this his back, feels the tingle of Will’s stubble rubbing against his chin, feels lips ghosting over his nose, and presses a light kiss to it. Stiles presses closer, running his hands up Will’s back before settling them on the older man’s neck.

They are so close: face-to-face, nose to nose, chest to chest. Their breath mingling in the small space they have created between their lips. Hands running over clothed backs and foreheads pressing together. They move closer until Will’s breath, shallow and labored, lingers on his lips. Will move to kiss him but, in a moment of hesitation, Stiles turns his head away.

“It’s getting late. I should probably go.” Stiles breaths against Will’s lips as he pulls away, and just like that Stiles has killed the mood.

Will closes off, face falling into an emotionless mask. Stiles knows he messed up. He could practically see the self doubt and worry worming its way through the older man’s brain, but he can’t stop himself as he stands and readies to leave. 

“No, stay.” Will pleads as he grabs Stiles hand, “You shouldn’t be driving back this late. I’ll sleep on the couch; you can have the bed.”

Sties nods and follows Will into the house. They go to bed, and Stiles hopes they will talk about it in the morning.

 

Light shines through the blinds of Will’s bedroom window. Stiles pulls the blankets over his head in attempts to shield him from the sunlight, and fall back to sleep for a few moments. The sound of silverware clinking against plates yanks him from his drowsiness as his stomach makes itself known—very adamant about how badly it wants some of Will’s sausage.

Sighing, Stiles makes his way down stairs. He hopes Will is unguarded this morning so they can talk about what happened last night. Because, Stiles doesn’t want Will thinking he had screwed up, thinking that he had screwed them up. Only, he finds that Will is not alone. There is a very handsome someone sitting next to Will, someone Will is looking very interestedly at.

Stiles doesn’t mind it, not like he should. Probably because the man is mind boggling gorgeous, and Stiles really wouldn’t mind the three of them sprawled out naked on the kitchen floor. It doesn’t stop him from pressing a kiss to Will’s forehead just incase the man is planning on snatching him away from Stiles, though. 

The man clears his throat, speaking, “I was unaware you had a guest over Will.” His tone implying that Will’s guest was much more than just a guest at Will’s house. Stiles can see how he can get that idea, for they are both in their boxers.

Will is to embarrassed to answer the man who is clearly awaiting an answer, looking highly amused. Stiles is aware the older man is does not situations that require him to be sociable so Stiles takes pity on him and answers for him.  

“I'm Stiles, Will’s boyfriend. It is nice to meet you.”

Will makes an indignant squeak, blushing furiously. The look on Will’s face makes Stiles frown because it was blatantly obvious Will didn’t know they were boyfriends. The other man ignores their exchange and takes the time to introduce himself.

“I am Doctor Lecter, Will’s psychiatrist. If I had known Will had a visitor, I would have prepared enough food for the three of us,” He says apologetically, eyes raking up Stiles body.

“It is okay. I was just leaving.” He states as he throws on a sweater, and tells Will they will talk later—because there it seems there is a lot they need to discuss.

 

They don’t get to have that talk.

Stiles gets a call during his third class from an unknown number. He lets it go to voicemail because he is the middle of a very important lecture on psychoanalysis. It keeps ringing throughout the class so he eventually leaves the room to answer the call.

When he answers it is the doctor, and he is explaining very calmly that Will has just killed a man. Mentioning that Will had shot the man multiple times in the chest, but only because the man was going to kill his daughter. He says that Will will need Stiles there for emotional support and that they would be waiting for him at the hospital. They spend a few minutes discussing directions, and then Stiles is hopping in his Jeep. 

Stiles finds Will in the waiting room sitting next to the doctor. He is still covered in blood. It is splattered across his face, and Stiles should not find it as arousing as he does. Stiles tries to hide it by sitting down next to Will and placing his backpack on top of his lap. By the look the Doctor sends him he was not a subtle as he had hoped. 

Will is unresponsive as Stiles pulls him close. His face scarily blank, and his body language eerily numb. Stiles had expected a crying and distraught Will not this comatose being curling up into him, and it scared the living shit out of him. The doctor brings them coffee and the three of them stay on the couch patiently awaiting news of a girl Stiles had never met. The three of them end up huddled up in each other—with Will sandwiched between Stiles and the doctor—on the couch until the morning. 


	8. Chapter 8

Will doesn’t understand what Hannibal is saying, not really. All he knows is that the girl is bleeding out below him, and he needs to stop the blood before anymore is lost. He tries to pinch off the blood flow with his hands, but his hands will not stop shaking from the gun recoil. Somehow Hannibal’s hands replace his own, doing a much better job of stopping the bleeding, and an EMT pushes him out of the way so he can put the girl on a stretcher.

Hannibal follows, keeping a hand protectively on the girl. They leave Will behind and he stares absently at the man, whom he shot repeatedly in the chest, resting against the cabinet. He is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't flinch when Crawford appears, and pesters him with questions. Ones that he wishes to answer truthfully, but cannot because he himself is afraid of what he might admit to.

He wishes to tell Jack he felt gross for the crime that he just committed. That he felt the bone-curdling guilt that comes from watching the light drain from another man’s eyes. Especially when his daughter laid next to his dying body, but he doesn’t. Instead he feels the overwhelming sense of power that comes from taking another’s life, and it is that reaction that makes him feel repulsed and gross. He keeps that to himself, though, as Crawford commodores him into a car to take him to the hospital.

Hannibal is waiting for him there, and all he can think about is how he wants to see a certain someone. Wants to be enveloped in that person’s embrace. Buried deep with in his neck, breathing in that familiar scent so he can pretend that he doesn’t have to contemplate his urge to kill again. So he can pretend he was just a normal guy who was currently trying to gain another’s affections, and not a man who killed a serial killer with tens bullets to the chest.

“Stiles. Call him.” He demands as he pushes his phone into this psychiatrist hands.

Surprisingly, the doctor does. Handling the call with ease, and soon Stiles is walking through the hospital doors. The kid comes rather fast to his side, and does not leave the whole night. Even when Will buries his head in his hands and refuses to talk to either of them.

Will half expects Stiles to leave at some point, and he does, just once. Will admits he is afraid the kid won’t come back, but the kid comes back with a handful of wet paper towels. He and Hannibal gently wash the blood off of Will’s face, removing the soiled shirt, and replacing it with one of Stiles old batman shirts. He cannot deny that during the whole ordeal he becomes incontestably tired, and pulls Stiles into him so he can pillow his head on the boy’s chest.

 

Something shifting beneath his head startles him from his sleep. He tries to snuggle back into the familiar warmth of the person’s neck after realizing it is Stiles moving beneath him, but strong hands wrap around his hips to tug him back into them. Will lets them until a puff of hot breath ghost the shell of his ear. He moans quietly, but it is lost in the soft snores of the two cuddle next to him.

It is awkward and painful with the three of them tangled on the couch. Legs and limbs woven together in throbbing agony, and he can no longer feel his right foot from where it has been entrapped between someone’s chest and a thigh. 

He finally finds a comfortable position between the two people. Leaning his head back on his psychiatrist chest—he doesn’t try to think about the implications of his therapist’s crotch pressed so close to his back—and his legs wrapped gently Stiles lower back. It is like this, wrapped up in Stiles and Hannibal, that he ultimately passes the night in a state of sluggishness before tiredly surrendering to unconsciousness.

 

Hannibal is pushing crappy Styrofoam cups of hospital coffee into their hands. Will takes a sip and leans his head back onto Stiles’ shoulder. No news on Abigail has come yet and Will remains on edge because if she dies it will be his entire fault. Stiles tries reassuring him by mentioning facts about hospitals and doctors that Will can hardly even fathom where the kid had time to learn them all.

That is how they pass their day, with Stiles rambling on and Hannibal idly joining in, until Crawford calls with bad news. Some kids had found a mushroom garden in the forest, and they needed Will’s expertise on a few things regarding the case. Will is reluctant at first but relents. Promising the two he would return to the hospital later that day.

Will spends the next few days immersed in the case. Trying not to get as close to this case as he did the last time, but he spends more time on the case than he does at the hospital and Stiles combined. He ends up killing again just to save Abigail, but this time he revels in the high the kill brings him.

Stiles finds them first, followed by Hannibal and Crawford’s crew. The medics and cops move about, pushing Will aside. He ends up in Stiles arms and he can feel how he is shaking. Hannibal is looking at him with knowing eyes, and it scares him so he hides in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder until they leave for his house. 

Will face plants onto the couch. To tired to feed the dogs, to tired to remove his shoes, to tired to do anything so he lays staring at the floor. The boy sits down on the floor next to the couch to read one of his text books. Will cards his hands through the boy's hair, and it is not long before he has the boy snuggled on top of him, snuggling close until they both fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! The next one should be up by the end of the week. Hope you liked it! :)


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles should work on hiding his reaction to this kind of thing, because popping boners in the middle of crowded crime scenes is going to start looking pretty suspicious soon. He can’t help it that Will standing over a dead man, clutching a gun in his hands, is unbelievably attractive and absolutely stimulating his neither regions. Can’t help the rush of the rush of blood that comes from that minute, psychotic smile splaying across Will’s usually docile face. He hopes that no one notices his reactions, but judging by the smirk on that insanely good-looking psychiatrist’s, that is not the case.

Will stumbles into his arms, shaky yet steady, and Stiles holds him close. The psychiatrist tells them to head home. Will protest vehemently because he is very concerned about the injured girl’s worsening condition. The man promises he will stay with her through the night, and update them about her condition periodically. Stiles isn’t really fond of the idea, but it pacifies Will enough for Stiles to maneuver him into his car.

He thinks they should probably talk about it—the killing that is. He’d killed enough in his life time to understand how bottling up all those feelings can affect a person’s mental health negatively, and the older man’s mind—however beautiful Stiles found it—was certainly not the staple of good mental health to begin with. Stiles just wasn’t sure how to bring up the shootings without upsetting the older man further than he already was.

They drive in silence, neither knowing what to say to the other, until they reach Will’s house. Will walks quietly into the house and Stiles follows. He watches the older man collapse of on the couch, and debates leaving him alone for the night. Stiles decides to stay the night out of fear of what Will might do to himself, and plops down on the floor next to where the man lay.

He is halfway through his reading assignment when he feels the older man’s fingers messaging his scalp. He leans into the touch, closing his textbook, and relocating himself on top of Will to get more of that glorious warmth against him. He is just about to ask Will if he wants to talk, but a quiet snore silences him. He listens to the mans quiet breathing as he snuggles closer to older man. 

 

Will had become rather reserved after that first night. Withdrawing from Stiles and the rest of the world by retreating further into his mind than he usual did before. Stiles has no idea how to fix this, or how he should even address it for that matter. So he ends up driving fifty miles to Baltimore to discuss this issue with the psychiatrist Will sees sometimes.  

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski.” The man greets cheerfully, “Have you come to talk about Will?”

“How could you know...”

“I have been expecting this for quite sometime. He is your boyfriend, is he not?" The doctor asks raising a questioning eyebrow at him before opening his office door wide. "Please come in.”

Stiles nods and steps into the doctor’s office. He is taken aback, at first, by the decorum and size of the room. The extravagance is breath taking and the likes of which is something he has only seen in movies. He makes himself comfortable in one of the chairs only after the doctor has taken a seat first. 

Dr. Lecter makes it clear with in the first few minutes that he cannot share the personal details of Will’s sessions with Stiles. He does, however, take the time to inform Stiles of various processes one must take in the matter of dealing with a patient suffering from PTSD, and tells him about the signs that he should look for if Will is truly suffering from the disorder. More than once does Stiles get distracted by the shape of the doctor’s lips. Horribly inconvenient, but no matter how hard he tries to pay attention the doctor has to explain things more than twice.

Stiles leaves with a handful of books, and a promise to call if ever he need assistance with Will or anything else.

 

Stiles spends the next few weeks reading up on the disorder. Learning about all the symptoms and signs of trauma he should be looking for. He groaned as he read another useless tip though it was better than that ‘rekindle your old flame’ one he had read moments earlier. He is about ready to give up. That is until he stumbles across a section telling him the first step was to provide a sense of normalcy, he could do that.

A knock on the door pulls him form his reading, and he lays the book down on his couch to answer it.

“Will?” Stiles asks, eyes widening in surprise when he opens the door to find the older man standing there, drenched in blood. Will doesn’t say anything, his eyes glazed over, and falls into Stiles. Will lets Stiles pull him in through the door way and away from of the prying eyes of the apartment complex. Lets Stiles guide him through the wall way and into the small living room of his apartment.

“Sit.” Stiles commands, and the man does so. However, lifelessly it may be.

Stiles observes him carefully as he dials the phone number written on the inside cover of one of the books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's looking like we are going to get Hannibal's P.O.V next chapter so that's something to look forward to! Hope you enjoyed. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a short one. There is a little change in point of view at the end. It goes from Will to Hannibal. Enjoy. :)

Will lays the knife down on the front seat of his car. Pushing the keys into the ignition with trembling hands before he has even had the chance to buckle himself in properly. His blood smearing all over the shiny metal of the key ring. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Hadn’t meant to travel so deep into the man’s head, so deep that he couldn’t come back to himself, so deep that he was standing over a mutilated deer carcass in the middle of god knows where.

Leaving the disfigured corpse behind him, he drives and drives and drives until he can no longer distinguish the differences in his surroundings. Until all there is is clean-cut gardens and dull suburbian house holds for as long as his eyes can see. Until all he can long for is to be the boring ordinary man pushing his daughter in the swing outside of his window. To be rid of his ‘mental gifts’ as some call them, or curse, as he liked to think of it. For there not to be blood drying on the worn wheel of his old car. To not feel that he must hide this side of himself from the harsh judging eyes of the world, for this blood to not be on his hands. For him and Stiles to be the ones occupying the safe little world this people live in, and not the world of serial killer and mushroom gardens he had created for them. He pulls himself from his toxic thoughts and floors the gas to avoid suspicious eyes of the ordinary people watching from the safety of their homes.

 

He ends up at Stiles’ apartment. Not sure how his feet have brought him here to this shabby apartment complex where everyone can see the blood that stains his clothes. He thinks, idly, that it must be because he feels safest when cuddled up in the boy’s arms, and that he must be seeking a comfort that only the boy can provide him.

He doesn’t remember his knuckles rasping against the door, or the door opening to reveal a distraught Stiles. Doesn’t remember being pulled into the light or being sat on the comfy couch. Doesn’t remember much of what was uttered between the two of them, or what he his thoughts were about the blood staining his hands. He just remembers the warmth that radiated through him as the boy wrapped him in the safety of his arms.

He vaguely remembers the soft voice cutting through the chaos reining his mind. Silencing the voices that threaten to destroy the last shreds of the humanity he has left, and bringing blissful stillness to his thriving bustling thoughts. Remembers the feel of gentle hands, unmoving against his trembling hands, guiding them to the warm skin of a hip, and stabilizing him in the present.

 

Hannibal shows up a few hours later to find the two snuggled up on the couch. He tries to hide the arousal from the dried red liquid splattered across Will’s troubled face. Imagining all the naughty things he can do to the men sat in front will get him no where so he decides to observe them from afar a little while longer more before moving forward into the room.  

He had such great plans for this one, he thinks as he sits on the coffee table next to Will. There would have been such amusement in toying with this patient, for he was so unlike the others, so much better than the others could have ever been. There was more potential for reward with this one than the others, but as he stands there watching them from the door he sees his carefully thought out plans crumbling into dust.

His heart races in such an unfamiliar way at the sight of the two pressed into the couch, and he is thoroughly perplexed by the strange feelings that accompany the sudden change in his bodily functions. And, as he let’s unsavory thoughts flit through his mind, he cannot stop the immense satisfaction pooling deeply in his stomach. The cogs in his mind already working hard to produce a new and better plan, one that will be much more rewarding than the last. Yes, this is going to be fun, he thinks, as he clears his throat and startles the two men awake. 


	11. Chapter 11

A gentle push against his shoulder startles him from his stupor. Opening his eyes he sees long graceful fingers jostling the fabric covering his chest with deliberate ease. Stiles is baffled by the man shaking him awake until his eyes adjust, and he can make out the familiar shape of the Lector’s lips. Stiles groans as he pushes the hands away, and rolls over to try and get some more sleep.

“Stiles? I think you better get all that blood off you.” The doctor smiles down at him before extending his hand graciously towards him. Stiles takes it and stares dumbly at it for a few seconds unable to understand what was going on around him. He feels an itch on his cheek.

Reaching up to scratch at it, he feels something sticky globing at his fingers. He pulls his hand away and sees the blood staining his fingertips and everything comes rushing back to him; how Will had shown up covered in blood. How he had cuddled up to Will and fallen asleep waiting for the doctor to show. He figures this is how he must have gotten blood on his cheeks and shirts. He knows he needs to go and wash, but he is torn between going to shower and staying to comfort Will.

“Go. I’ll take care of him.” The doctor promises from his perch on the coffee table.

Stiles nods and heads down the hall to a bathroom, until a realization hits him. “Hold up. How did you get in here?”  Stopping at the bathroom door, he turns to raise an eyebrow suspiciously at the man.

“Your door was unlocked.” Hannibal informs him and Stiles takes it as a valid excuse. Too tired to contemplate whether or not he locked his door so he chooses to file it away to contemplate later.

He steps inside the room discarding his clothes as he goes: pants landing in a mess on the cold white tiled floor, green socks slipping off his feet, batman boxers falling into the hollow of the sink, sweatshirt dropping into the toilet with a quiet swoosh. He can’t bring himself to care that the sleeve of the sweatshirt Scott gave him is steeping in the toilet bowl as he turns on the water. He is just too tired to care.

He steps under the water, and the blood dribbles down his face as it mixes with the water that cascades down his body. The blood and water drawing little patterns down his pale torso and slipping past his bony ankles to collect at the edge of the drain. He tries to ignore the blood leaking into his eyes as he allows the warm water to wash over his body, washing all traces of evidence from his skin, and soaps himself up with an old rag.

This reminds him of all the times he had ran around with the werewolves, and all the physical wounds and emotional scars that came with being the only human in a pack of monsters. Except, this time there are no strong arms sneaking up his stomach, no gentle kisses to his temple or large hands washing him clean their werewolf-y powers suck his pain into their veins. There is no one to turn too when he gets aroused at crime scenes, or when he can’t get Will to acknowledge him. No one is there to direct him in the right direction when he had no idea which way to turn. He almost wishes he were surrounded by the pack again. Almost.

 

Sighing, Stiles turns of the water and steps out of the shower. He dries off and wraps a towel loosely around his hips. He realizes then that he had not brought a change of clothes with him, and he would have to walk past Will’s psychiatrist half nude to get a new pair. He weighs how emotionally scarring the situation will be for the two of them before he says screw it, and walks out of the bathroom determinedly.

Stiles stops at the edge of the hallway watching the doctor dip a rag into a bowl of water. Intrigued by the way he brings it up and moves it along Will’s face and hands without waking him. Intimated by the how domestic it looks, and jealous that it is the man doing it not him. He just hopes that Hannibal hasn’t noticed him creeping.

Toweling at Will’s face, Hannibal says, “Get dressed, I’ve put on some coffee. It will be done when you’ve dressed.”

Stiles nods and heads over to his dresser. He notices how the sounds of shirts ruffling and water splashing have stopped. He can feel the eyes staring at him from afar and he smiles.

“He’ll be okay.” Hannibal reassures him for the fourth time as he passes him a cup of coffee. They stand there in Stiles’ dingy little kitchenette. Stiles sitting on the counter with Hannibal resting his hip against it’s edge a few feet away.

They stew in silence for a few moments as both of them sip at their coffee. Stiles takes the opportunity to sneak peeks at Hannibal’s haunting figure when the other is not looking. He feels bad about it, looking that is, when Will is the next room on the verge of a potential melt down—but damn if the diminishing yellow light hanging above them did wonders to the man’s facial features—and he just could not help himself.   

“The blood wasn’t human. He most likely killed a deer, or something of that nature.” Hannibal says breaking the silence. “He experienced what we in the medical world call a dissociation from reality. It is where—”

“I know what dissociating means.” Stiles informs the older man truthfully. He had gone through a phase of dissociations back in Senior Year. It was a rather dark time in his life that he would rather not reminisce over. 

Hannibal nods, but doesn’t press him before continuing on, “It was probably an effect of Garret-Jacob Hobbs’ thoughts lingering in his mind that pushed Will to kill the deer.”

“Will he do it again?” Stiles enquires genuinely since he the new information has made him afraid for his life and all.

“We will have no way of knowing until he kills again.” Hannibal laments before sipping on his own cup of coffee.

“Are we not going to call the police? Crawford probably needs to know about this.”

“And for what? Will would lose his job. His colleagues in the force will shun him. The bureau will discard. What will needs right now is a stability that only you and I can provide him.”

They fall back into an uneasy silence, neither certain what to say, until Hannibal says, “I am truly sorry about your clothes.”

“I’m sorry?” Stiles stammers.

“I am no stranger to the plights caused by the stains in nice shirt.”

“It’s not my first time to deal with blood stains. It’ll be oaky.” Stiles replies as he slushes the coffee around in his cup.

Hannibal looks like he is about to ask something, but Will disrupts them with a cough. They both look to the man standing in those stupid blue boxers looking incredibly small in the entryway. Stiles places his coffee on the counter and moves to reach for Will, but Will flinches and retraces his steps as Stiles approach. Hannibal pulls him back, sending him a look, and they wait for Will to assess the situation.

 “Stiles?” he asks confusedly, “Doctor Lector? Why am I here.”

Stiles starts to explain, but the good doctor takes over after Stiles stumbles a few times. They cajole Will smoothly into some of Stiles’ old underwear as the doctor describes the events that passed during the night, at least what he knew of them. Will grows more trepid with each passing explanation, and finally after some coaxing Will tells them what he remembers about the deer.

Stiles turns down the bed sheets as Will recounts his car ride, and waits for Will to get situated comfortably underneath the sheets before joining him. Will gravities towards the bed and pulls Stiles with him. Snuggling his head into Stiles’ neck. Stiles expects the doctor because of the ease he had entangled with them at the hospital, but instead the man makes to leave.

“Where’d you think your going?” Stiles asks the doctor as he gets ready to leave. “It’s too late for driving. Just stay the night.”

“It’s not very professional to stay the night with one's patient.”

“Nothing about this night has been professional. It’s just one more thing you can add to your list.”

“We are not going to tell anyone.” Stiles promises, rolling his eyes and patting the empty space next to Will.

Hannibal hovers by the door for a few moments as he thinks it over. “If you insist.”

“It’s not like we’re going to kill you or anything.” The doctor huffs out a laugh at that, but Stiles can see his resolve melting as he removes his jacket and falls on to the bed. 

It is a tight squeeze with all three of them on Stiles tiny bed, but to Stiles’ surprise they manage it. Stiles ends up half on top of Will with his leg pushed awkwardly against Will’s crotch. Hannibal is tittering on the edge on the other side of Will. Slowly the older man gravities towards them through the night and eventually his arms entangle with Will and Stiles’ own.

 

Stiles wakes to the sound of clinking dishes and the gamy smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen. He buries his head further into the warmth of Will’s shoulder to block out the light and try to get some more sleep. His stomach has other plans and eventually he follows the path that leads to the sounds and smell—not before placing a soft kiss to Will’s temple.

Hannibal is facing the stove when Stiles enters the kitchen. The man has his sleeve cuffs rolled up, exposing flawless skin, so he can prevent stains from the grease fighting its way out of the pan. His arm muscles clenching and unclenching as he filled the food around in the pan. It is so ridiculously sexy that he cannot help but feel ridiculously like a wolf stalking its prey as he advanced forward to see what is in the pan.

“I didn’t buy any sausage this week.” Stiles says confusedly as he peaks at the food slowly cooking in the pan on the stove.

“I am aware. You refrigerator lacks the necessities your body requires to survive.” Hannibal comments, “I have taken the liberty to restock it.”

Stiles mumbles a ‘thank you’ before turning to the fridge so he doesn’t have to see that smug little smile plastered across the guys stupidly perfect face. He rummages around inside looking for the orange juice. It is not in its usual spot, somewhere farther back, and the older man must have moved it to make room for all the other meat he had bought.

Grumpily, Will makes his way into the kitchen at the same time Stiles is closing the fridge’s door. His eyes are tinged red and Stiles can see how dead they seem. Can see just how much Hobbs’ death is affecting him. Something the doctor said hit him then about how Stiles could provide Will a sense of stability. That Stiles could be the anchor, and he can’t help the smile fighting to break across his face.

“Hey.” Stiles smiles brightly at Will as he sits down at the table.

“Hey.” Will replies sleepily before directing his attention to the doctor. “What are we having this morning?” 


	12. Chapter 12

Will doesn’t know where he is when he wakes up in the morning. There is too much sunlight seeping in from the windows for this place to be in the woods. There is not enough blood or leafs covering the floor for him to be where he was last night. He concludes from the lack of the red liquid and fronds that it must have been all some horrible dream like the stag that has started following him around since he murdered Hobbs.

The room is much too bright to be his bedroom: the blankets much too fluffy. There are no dogs barking relentlessly to be let outside or licking at his hand for food. Piles of psychology books litter the floor a few feet away from the bed. He is thoroughly confused until he realizes, as long arms tug him closer, that he is in Stiles’ apartment.

The warmth of Stiles’ breath tickles his lips. He is half tempted to lean just a little bit closer. Just enough to press his lips against the boy’s own, but he chooses to snuggle deeper into the boy’s neck. Fingertips press soothingly against his scalp, carding through his hair, and rubbing nonsensical patterns onto his back. The motions mollify his restless mind. 

He is afraid to go back to sleep because Hobbs will be there to haunt him in his dreams. But, he can hear two hearts surrounding him and they lull him to sleep.

 

Breakfast isn’t as awkward as he thought it would be. Conversation comes easily between the three of them. Flowing between subjects that were too complicated to be discussing this early in the morning, but with the help of coffee they could all contribute energetically. They don’t force him to make eye contact when he is not ready. They don’t engage in conversation with him if he is not the first to speak. Will can just sit back and listen to the two bicker about spices and herbs as he chews thoughtfully on the sausage. He finds it nice to be able to listen freely without any social obligations controlling his every thought.

The noise provides a distraction from the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind, waiting to break free. Something is there just beneath the surface, clawing its way through his mind. It is dark and unyielding but Will controls it with the help of Stiles’ incessant chatter and Dr. Lecter’s calmness. Keeps it at bay with the surreal-ness of the moment and basks in it until it is disrupted by the sound of his phone ringing.  

It is Jack. Abigail is awake and he wants information from her _now._

They leave Stiles behind to clean the dishes much to Hannibal’s dismay. They want to stay and help, but Jack wants them at the hospital so they go. Stiles promises to stop by Will’s house and feed the dogs as he waves them out of the kitchen.

The easiness of the morning is left behind with Stiles in the small apartment. It is now awkward in the car without Stiles there to supply an endless amount of chatter. The two of them sit uncomfortably in the silence of the car. Will thinks maybe the doctor wants to address Hobbs and Stammets’ death, but Will is not ready to think about them. So he sits quietly while the doctor flips to a classical station on the radio.

“You are a lucky man to have such caring boyfriend.” The doctor speaks up finally as he weaves carefully in and out of cars.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Will informs him tastelessly.

The doctor admires him curiously for a second before returning his gaze to the road.

They return to silence. Will contemplating what he would ask Abigail. Composing their dialogue in his mind. Accounting for every possibility of her noncompliance to his questioning—he did kill her father after all. Presuming and assuming different roles for her questioning that would not set her off or push her further way. Slowly, his mind detours back to Stiles’ apartment and Dr. Lecter. Finding his psychiatrist at in bed with him has been bothering him sense he woke up, but he hadn’t addressed it yet.

“What were you even doing at his apartment?”

“You where having an episode, Will.” Hannibal replies, “Stiles called for my help so I came.”

“I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

“No. You were nearly catatonic.” The doctor reassures, “It was probably just the effects of Hobbs’ death toying with your mind.”

Will lets it go for a few minutes as his mind pieces the evidence together. There is some piece of the puzzle that is missing. He can remember Stiles and the doctor explaining something to him, something important, but he can’t remember what they were saying. It is a few moments before he realizes the doctor has yet to explain why he had stayed the night.

“If it wasn’t bad than why did you stay?”

“It was late, and Stiles is very persuasive.”

“Yes, he can be very persuasive.” He mutters under his breath as they pull into the hospital parking lot.

 

“Are you rubber stamping me?” Will asks indignantly from the mezzanine. “Even after last night.”

After dealing with Abigail and Lounds, the last thing he needs today is the good doctor writing him off as some kind of half assed job.

Hannibal sighed, “You are perfectly functional, and more or less sane. Crawford needn’t know about the rest. The evaluation would only hinder our sessions since the deadline is so close.”

Will nods before launching into his thoughts on Abigail’s state, and his sense of obligation that he has towards her. He is shocked when Dr. Lecter returns the same feeling of obligation towards her, and he tells him how vulgar it is that Jack could ever consider Abigail Hobbs a killer. Will agrees as he makes his way down to the first floor and over to a chair.

They finish their session by talking about Hobbs’ death and how it made Will feel.

God makes his way into the discussion, and Will gradually comes to the terms with the murder. With the way it made him feel. He admits the rush over power that came with killing something so bad that it felt good. By the end of the night, Will is ready to retire to his house, pour himself a Scotch, and maybe call Stiles up for a long chat before bed.

He leaves the office feeling oddly at peace with himself, and for a few nights the nightmares stop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually drops this here*  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

 

He places a plastic bowl down on the counter, drags a clear jug of distilled vinegar out from beneath his sink, and pops the cap off. He brings the jug up to his nose slowly to take a whiff before pouring it into the bowl—coughing as the scent burns acid down his throat.

It’s a familiar burn; something he had to get use to when he was losing his mind back in Beacon Hills. The sting brings back hazy memories of him romping around the moonlight forests and a paralyzing fear that a concerned parent might find the evidence in the morning. It brings back the endless nights of researching for ways to remove dirt and blood from denim without leaving any suspicious scents behind on Google. A blaring noise rings throughout the apartment and distracts him from his reminiscing.  

Startled, he turns off the kitchen timer and examines the bloodstaining Will’s clothes soaking in the sink. He works the jeans and sweater slowly around in his hand as he looks for the biggest of the stains.

The stains are mostly small, just splatters, but he is glad Will had a spare pair of clothes at his apartment so he wouldn’t have to be reminded of the killing throughout the day.

Stiles can imagine how the stains got there. He can visualize clearly just how Will’s knife cut into the unsuspecting animal.

He situates the clothes to where the biggest stains sit in the bowl of vinegar, sets the timer for thirty minutes, and leaves the room.

He goes about his cleaning as he waits for the vinegar to work its magic: washing the dirtied dishes from breakfast, straightening the bed, tidying bathroom. He can smell the thickness of the cleaning supply saturating the air as he scrubbed the bathroom sink. The headiness of the air makes it hard to breath, sets him on edge. Taking deep breaths to stop the pressure slowly building in his chest. Stiles jumps when the alarm sounds again, but he makes his way back to the kitchen to reexamine the stains.

Determining them clean, he grabs a red dishtowel from its place on the oven. He dips the cloth into the icy water of a cup near by. He lets the clear liquid soak deep into the coarse material before he dabs at the smelly parts of Will’s trousers. Dabbing, once, twice, three times before the acidic odor starts to fade.

Once it is all done he throws the clothes into the washer after he is certain the water is cold, just for good measure.

He feels clean.

Safe.

 

The house isn’t empty when he enters. The dogs are waiting patiently by the door. They tackle him enthusiastically to the floor before he even has a chance to get into the house. They lick and paw at his face making it hard to breath. He has to give them the hissing signal Will taught him to call them off for them to let him free. 

He cuts up some sausages from the kitchen after he is free, and throws them on the floor by the dogs. He observes them devouring the food from the counter. Watching them makes him hungry so he makes himself a peanut butter and jelly waffle.

His phone ringing in his pocket as he waits for his waffle to heat up in the oven startles him, and he fishes his phone out of his pocket. In his haste to answer the call he doesn't notice who is calling. He hopes it is Will calling, thought, to tell him about the girl in the hospital, or one of classmates inviting him out to a party.

“Have you fucked him yet?” He discovers, to his disappointment, its Lydia and her tactlessness as always.

He can hear the pack fighting over who gets to watch TV in the background. They will be listening in while Lydia discusses Stiles’ sex life. He knows it, and it irritates him.

Stiles sighs while taking his waffle out before it burns. “It’s good to hear from you too Lydia,” he says sarcastically, “Yeah, I know its been along time, but I'm doing really good. Thanks for asking.”

“Cut the crap Stilinski. You’re alive, aren’t you? So answer the question.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Stiles really doesn’t want to hear about Lydia’s plans to get him in Will’s pants today. He, also, really doesn’t want to explain the whole murder thing, or the resulting strain on Will’s psyche. So, he makes up an excuse about one of the dogs getting loose and hangs up the call prematurely.

“That was exhausting.” He says to the dogs as he cuts into his food, and lets Gruffles lick another piece of sausage out of his hand.

After it is all done, he ventures outside with the dogs for a while. The sun beats relentlessly down against his skin, but the wind blows occasionally so it isn’t so bad. He lets the dogs take care of their business and then they return inside.

Stiles finds some books on entomology. A few of them Will had recommended Stiles read instead of his own monograph. Hoping to get some good notes out of them for an up coming test he cracks them open with Gruffles curled up on his lap.

 

Will is frowning at him in confusion from the doorway when Stiles looks up from his notes.

“I was just feeding your dogs.” He says groggily as he pushes his notebook away.

The older man doesn’t say anything as he sits down next to Stiles.

“Should I go?” Stiles asks with a start as he stands up with a stretch.

Will shakes his head but doesn’t look him in the eyes. Stiles knows it is for Will to decide how they proceed from this point—he read about it in one of the books Dr. Lecter let him borrow.

“No, no, it’s okay. I was going to call you is all.”

Stiles nods and sits back down, closer to Will this time. “I am guessing it didn’t go so good with the Hobbs girl?”

Will agrees dejectedly, but Stiles can sense there is something else bothering Will that the older man isn’t ready to discuss yet.

So instead, Stiles takes Will’s hand and threads their fingers together. He uses their linked hands to tug the older man down on top of him. To Stiles’ surprise Will complies easily and soon he is nose deep in Will’s unruly mop. He debates bringing up the dating thing until he feels Will whispering against his neck.

“I liked killing Hobbs. It made me feel powerful.”

Will’s admission both shocks and scares Stiles, and it takes a few minutes to let the severity of the admittance sink in—frozen by the fear that the older man might want to kill him as the realization hits him. He decides that Will would have killed him by now if that was what he was planning. He reasons wouldn’t do that to him, and debates what to change the topic too—what would be the best route to steer them from a path that Will was clearly not ready to travel yet.

“I finished cleaning the clothes you left at my house yesterday.” Stiles decides finally, “They’re hanging in your closet.”

“Thanks. How did you get these by the way?” Will questions as he wiggles his hands away from Stiles’ body to indicate he is talking about the clothes clinging to his body.

“I stole them once. Well, I guess borrowed them is the more correct term to use here, but it wasn’t like I was going to—”

Will’s laugh interrupts him and Will says shortly after, “Ah, yes, I remember now. Winston peed on yours when you were in the shower, didn’t he?”

The memory does something to Will. Sets something off in him, and then he is laughing uncontrollably, bordering on the hysterical, even. The sound of it fills the room and cuts through the tension building between them.

It goes silent again as Will’s laughing dies down. Stiles can feel the tension from before settling over them again. Tension and silence are two of Stiles’ least favorite things so he desperately wants to break them. He has no idea of what to say or do, and Will is so close—close enough for Stiles to feel Will’s breath on his lips.

Stiles drags his thumb over the stubble on Will’s cheek, reveling in the pleasant tingle stopping just below the lower lip. He watches as Will wets his lip, a pink tongue flicking out briefly over chapped lips.  He desperately wants to catch that bottom lip with his teeth, but he thinks Will should be the one to take the first step. 

Will’s eyes skim down his body while their heads slowly gravitate toward each others. He reaches over Stiles’ head for something at the last moment, and Stiles moans internally. Will brings a journal as he settles back down on Stiles’ body and looks it over.

“Still having problems finding the decay rate by the state of blowfly eggs?”

He groans, and Will smiles as he rises to clean off the coffee table so they can work without all the clutter.  

Stiles goes to get them drinks and snacks from the kitchen—whiskey for Stiles and a Scotch for Will. He also gets Will an Aspirin for his headache while popcorn pops in the microwave.

Will has already drawn little diagrams of flies and rotting flesh by the time Stiles gets back with their drinks and snacks. The older man pats the empty space on the floor beside him for Stiles to sit before working on charts.

He loses interest halfway through Will’s hypothetical situation about a corpse that has recently hatched fly eggs in the soil next to the corpse’s head. He settles for trying to throw pieces of popcorn into Will’s mouth when Will is least expecting it. Will catches him taking tallies, and it results an epic popcorn war that he grudgingly loses. Will smiles more than he has in a long time so Stiles takes it as a victory.

Stiles is aware this is the calm before the storm, but he will relish in it for as long as he can.

 

Stiles stops by the doctors office on his way home. They decided that the doctor should be the one to address the events of last night with Will, and Stiles needs to know what he is and isn’t to say the incident to Will.

They discuss what Will knows about what he did, and Stiles ends up staying for dinner. The doctor asks him to call him Hannibal since they will be seeing each other more often in the future. And, just like that he is on a first name basis with his kind-of-boyfriend’s eccentric psychiatrist. 

 

Stiles picks up his mail from his mailbox on the way up to his apartment. He checks it as he climbs the stairs to the fourth floor. There is nothing particularly interesting about it, just a few bills and notices for bills he forgot to pay.

He jostles the envelopes as he fumbles with the keys, and a flimsy piece of paper slips out of stack. Elegant handwriting composed neatly on sturdy parchment paper. A little bow is attached to the top. It is too well put together to be a coupon or something just as obsolete.

For all the show he can’t understand what it is about. It’s just scriptures: _Psalm 9:10, Romans 13:11, Isaiah 40:31_. It continues to about halfway down the page, and then it just stops. Stiles determines a church member must have snuck past the mail man who works the mailroom, and dumps it on the table with the other papers.

Something seems off about it though—nineteen years of living with a Sheriff taught him better than to discard something like this so easily. So, thirty minutes later he finds himself digging the letter out of the trash. He folds it neatly into his pocket and heads to the library. Hoping the local library had Bibles he could check out. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken me so long to write, and that it is such a short chapter! It is kind of a lead up chapter so enjoy!

Stiles is long gone when he begins picking up the pieces of popcorn littering his floor. The house holds a kind of empty quietness without the boy’s roaring laughter filling the unbearable silence; the room holding a kind of quiet emptiness without the boy filling the space next to him. Leaving Will with an astute awareness of how much he has come to depend on the boy’s company.

There is still a smile lingering on his face as he remembers the boys’ flirtatious antics from earlier that evening. It has been a while since he has felt so carefree and content with another person. It has been years since he could almost feel like the demons in his mind left him long enough so he could enjoy the presence of another human being.

It feels nice to be with him. The moments they are together brings peace to his chaotic mind, stops him from talking to the ghost suspended on dust, and kills the memories of bloodied bodies before they can resurface in his mind. The times when Stiles is pressed against him allow him to push the thoughts of killing Hobbs away, and he thinks it worth it, even if he has to take some time out of his night to clean his carpet.

He walks the dogs, feeling light hearted, before settling in for the night.

 

Jack calls him the next morning with a case that is going to take him away from the house for a few days. The plane leaves for Cleveland in two hours; leaving him with hardly anytime to pack and get his affairs in order before he embarks on a tireless journey to catch some demented soul.

He packs a few extra sweaters and pants just incase a few days turn into a few weeks. He feeds his dogs as he waits for an email attachment to print off, and calls for Stiles for a ride to the airport.

They leave the house a little after one o’clock and Will feels the onset of a headache coming on. He reads the report on the way to the airport, and he can tell the silence is making Stiles antsy by the way his hands keep fiddling with the radio.

Finally, after awhile, Stiles asks what the case is about. Will reluctantly tells him about the little motel, in Ohio, where bodies had been found sliced and displayed in a gruesome depiction of angels watching over someone in bed.  The boy remains quiet through the brief recapping of events. Will begins to think he hasn’t heard him when Stiles acknowledges he has heard with a strangled noise in the back of his throat that he quickly retracts when Will shoots him a concerned look.

They reach the airport and spend sometime awkwardly piddling with luggage and car keys. Stiles hugs him, promising to look after the dogs and keep an eye out for his mail. He makes Will promise that he won’t come back with more blood on his hands than last time Jack called him in. Then he is gone, and Will is left to handle Jack and a raging headache on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are going to try for a new update every Saturday, so we will see how it goes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised a chapter every Saturday, and I am sorry for the delay. School has proven to be a tougher adversary than originally thought. Anyway, enjoy.

He ends up with a bible perched on his lap and papers strewn out across the floor around him while he sits in the protection of the darkened aisles of the library.  Living with a Sheriff for most of his life should have trained him to look between the lines a little better. Should have pushed him to find a cipher, and he tried. God knows he tried, but there were only so many was he could rewrite a sentence. There were only so many ways to try and decipher a code before his hyperactive mind loses interest, and he finds himself admiring the moles decorating his forearms instead.

He begins to wonder if he really was just being paranoid, if maybe running with wolves for so long had tainted his perception on reality, but he received two of the letters in a week.

Sighing in frustration, Stiles wads up the paper and throws it at the wall. He is mad that all the library could offer was a few small scriptures about glorifying one’s self through the grace of God. There was nothing suspicious about, well, anything in his readings. It was just the average stuff, but he was convinced something had to be there. He could feel it in the sickening pull twisting in his gut.

It is the book dropping at the end of the aisle that sets his skin crawling in ways it hasn’t in a long time. It is the fact that no one is standing there in dim light where the book dropped face down on the floor that sets his distraught mind on the edge. The fact that there is no one else in the library except the old librarians sitting at the front desk with him tucked in dark alcoves of the aisles that alarms him. It’s odd, he thinks, that it fell on its own. Maybe if the air condition was running it would be possible. Expect it hasn’t been running since he came in, and it felt deliberate like someone was trying to make a very subtle threat.

The unknown entity’s presence brings on the beginning of panic set in, the weight of it pressing down around him. Will’s call gives him an excuse to leave before the situation can mess with his mind any further.

 

The ride to the airport is tenser than Stiles expects. The Will from the other night has completely vanished, and the thought that this case could be the one that potentially breaks Will scares him. He thinks maybe it is better not to know what he is about to send Will chasing after, thinks it is not better to know what Will is about to allow free reign over his mind. Thinks it might help him sleep better at night, but the way Will is sighing tells him different.

The older man is tired. His voice hoarsens; his shoulders sag as he rests his head against the cold glass of the car window and he turns the pages of the file in his head. Talking about the guy is down right disgusting. Stiles has seen enough disembodiment and gore that he will be seeking comfort in psychiatrists’ chairs for the rest of his life, but this, this is something else entirely. He tries not to think about flesh pulled back to expose pale spines and glistening muscles on display for all to see. It’s hard not too, and the noise he makes is undignified and embarrassing. It’s hardly even human. He finds distraction in the cheesy love songs playing on the radio all the way to the airport.

When they arrive he fumbles awkwardly for a few minutes before sweeping Will up in a hug. He promises to take care of the dogs and look after the house as he lets the other man go. He watches Will leave with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hopes this new killer doesn’t mess with Will’s mind like the last one. There is only so much vinegar he can buy before it starts looking suspicious.

 

Hannibal helps him with feeding the dogs. They switch off duties. Hannibal gets mornings because of a few late appointments with his patient; Stiles takes nights because of morning classes. It is all too quiet without Will around and he finds himself missing that goofy little smile more and more with each passing day. He wishes he could say he didn’t stoop so low as to curl up in one of Will’s grandpa sweaters and cuddle in the bed with all the dogs, but he totally did.

Most of the nights he is okay in the big house all by himself. He’ll take the dogs for a walk through the fields in front of Will’s house. He’ll look back and the house is like a lighthouse that guides him back in the night. Sometimes he can see a silhouette of a man on the porch, but whatever it is is gone before he reaches the house. It is on these nights when he is alone in Will’s bed in Will’s room that the fear takes him. On these nights sleep never finds him.

He stays awake this particular night because he keeps getting the feeling someone is watching him, and he is kind of afraid someone is going to crawl through the window to kill him while he sleeps. When it becomes evident sleep will not find him, he reaches for his phone, thumbs a number in, and idly twists the hem Will’s sweater in his fingers as he waits for an answer.

“Hey.” It’s Will and his voice hoarse with sleep.

“Hey.” Stiles replies easily, “Did I wake you?”

“No. No, Stiles you didn’t wake me.” It’s a lie. Stiles can hear it in the way Will’s syllables slur together with sleep and his breath huffs tiredly into the receiver.

They aren’t having much luck catching the killer. They lost another person, but they’ve gained some new evidence. Katz figures it is a vigilante's, of sorts, last desperate attempt with finding peace with ‘God’ before the cancer takes him. Will is afraid of giving away information because either because Jack is sleeping two doors down or because the killings are messing with his head. Either way Stiles doesn't ask. He just listens and lets the steady rhythm of Will’s voice lull him to sleep.

 

Stiles wakes to the sound of a door slamming coming the floor below him. He is paralyzed for a moment before the years of training with the wolves kicks in and he jumps silently from the bed. There are no bats or heavy metal objects in his line of sight that could be used for protection, and he feels naked and bare as he moves forward down the hallway towards the stairs. He just prays that the dogs have bitten any intruders to give him time to figure something out.

He cheeks the house top to bottom for intruders, but there are none. He makes sure all the doors are locked, and then he calls Will again to tell him about what happened. Will convinces him that it was probably just the wind and not to worry. But tells him if he is still worried that he should call Hannibal.

The feeling someone is watching him never leaves him so he calls Hannibal like Will told him too, and makes a place for him to sleep on Will’s couch. Hannibal doesn’t take the couch, and eventually he ends up tangled up in both Stiles and the comforter.  

When he wakes his clothes are lightly pressed and folded on the edge of the bed. He spends some time getting dressed, relishing the feel of the soft material against his skin, before heading downstairs.

Hannibal is in the kitchen cooking when he enters. The older man is too preoccupied with the sausage to notice Stiles grabbing one of the cups of coffee sitting on the table. Stiles may or may not exploit the moment and sneaks a few furtive glances at the man’s ass before he making his presence known.

“Thanks for the clothes.” Stiles says as he takes a set at the table.

“It was no problem.” Hannibal says smiling as he places down a plate of food, “Eat.” 

They banter quietly over breakfast before Hannibal asks cautiously about what happened last night. He is reluctant to explain the paper he received in the mail or how someone might be stalking him. It was easier to complain about his upcoming midterms and evil teachers. They were a distraction he desperately needs, and Hannibal is willing to indulge him them it seems as he listens patiently.

“Fuck,” Stiles groans as he spots the flimsy piece of paper nestled in with Will’s mail. He tries not to choke on his food in his haste to inspect it. Though he already knows what it will say. Though he knows the curves that flourished the P’s and the hook that clings to the one’s—he’d stared at them every night of the week. Though he already knows the dread that comes with catching sight of the small embellishments on the stiff paper. Because twice is coincidence but three times is a pattern, and he feels maybe—whatever this is—it is directed at him.

Hannibal lays down his fork, looking concerned, “Is something wrong? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, its nothing. I’m going to be late. Thanks again for everything.” He says evenly pocketing the letter as he heads out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh. Stiles is in trouble. More Hannibal POV next chapter! WOO!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god! I am so sorry for the delay! It has been a hard past few months. I was in the hospital and there were lots of test, then I was busy playing catch up with school, than I was in a foreign country where internet was surprisingly not readily available. Good news, though, I got the whole thing completed and I am going to post a chapter at least once a week until it is all up. Except for this week because I'll be on an outing.  
> @NobodiesChan I had every attention of posting this Friday but my internet went down and the internet company wasn't able to fix it until today! I am sorry.  
> Please let me know if I over did it on the comas. It has been awhile since I encountered my old friend, the English comma, and I feel a little rusty.  
> Without further ado, here is the new chapter.

Hannibal never liked dogs, much in the same way he never liked children. They were unruly and dirty. Always shedding their hair over his spotless floors and biting the hem of his freshly pressed pants. Will’s dogs were the only exception: well trained and obedient. It is the only reason he agrees to help Stiles watch over Will’s house in his absence.

He pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot Stiles brewed as he watches the dogs fight over the last of that dreadful postman he killed last Tuesday. Will’s machine is cheap and the coffee tastes just the same. He makes a mental note to persuade the man to buy a machine that better compliments his tastes.

It is only 8:30, and his next appointment isn’t until one. He has enough time to leisurely explore the house so he looks around Will’s living room. The room is an awful lot like Will: clean, polished, and unsurprisingly a little old fashioned.  Bound volumes of encyclopedia’s and reference books clutter the shelves that line the left side of the room and bookcase by the door. Tiny unlabeled boxes fill the spaces unoccupied on the blue shelves—most likely full of fishing lures. A lone painting of a forest sits next to a picture of Will’s dogs on the mantle of the fireplace. Nothing hanging on the walls to speak of Will’s winning personality. None of the nick knacks lining the floor lent any clues to the other man’s life.

Except, when inspected closer, it was easy to tell the room was full of well-hidden secrets: secrets that could be Will’s undoing. The many dog beds, that were not makeshift beds made entirely of blankets haphazardly thrown together, showed how much care and attention the man put into the collection of strays he was hoarding. Someone could easily take a dog’s live and send the man into a spiraling depression. There were empty bottles of Aspirin on the nightstand next to the couch, suggesting nights of endless sleeplessness and tireless headaches. Fishing lures cluttered the tables, suggesting a time from long ago. Perhaps even as far back as a child—a time where he felt good and safe. Anyone of Hannibal’s nature would take them for what they were: a weakness waiting to be taking advantage of.

The fishing lures had caught his eye the first time he had come to Will’s house for breakfast. He was curious being by nature, and he could not stop himself from unraveling the lures Will had put so much effort into perfecting. He unraveled them, destroyed them, and remade them into something so much better. Cassie Boyle’s hair certainly had a unique beauty to it that Will’s cheap gaudy feathers did.

He isn’t sure what made him do it exactly, but he definitely wanted to see what the other man would retaliate when he discovered what Hannibal had done.

It is when he is finishing up that he notices something amiss. He feels it rather than he sees it: a shiver up the spine that sets him on edge. There is a slight change in the air: a daunting smell of cheap aftershave that wasn’t there seconds ago. For a second he thinks it must be Will but the sounds of feet stumping harshly down the hallway tell him otherwise.

The dogs run towards the door. Their barking increases in a deafening crescendo until it is maddening. He tries to quiet them as he slinks into the shadows of the bookcases. Seeking shelter from prying eyes, if there should be any. Hannibal catches a glimpse of the intruder, just the back of a head because they turn abruptly and flees. The dogs must have scared them off. He tilts his head curiously, pondering this new development. The dogs don’t leaving him much time to think once they are alone. They’ve been riled up and will not leave him alone to his thoughts.

 

He leaves only due to the fact that his duty to Franklyn calls him away. If it had been his choice he would have stayed to see if the man came back around.

 

It is dark out when Hannibal pulls onto the long windy road that leads to the old Virginian farmhouse. Delibes’ Flower Duet blares quietly through the speakers. His sleek black Bentley blends into the shadows created by the trees and broken street lights lining the street; the headlights turned off so as not to alert Stiles or anyone else on the street of his presence.

He parks his car out of sight and he waits. He is not unfamiliar with an incredibly dull chase before a kill. Not unfamiliar with the days of waiting for that exceptionally and extraordinarily rude person to make his acquaintance, or the nights of idly watching the encounters of the passersby. He has honed the skill so well, in fact, that other people where completely unaware of the chase until it was to late. It is a skill he takes immense pride and pleasure in and tonight it is no different.

At the head of the road stands a shadowy figure. He can faintly make out the tall lean body in the moonlight—a male judging by his gait and the hard lines of his body. He walks, body swaying in the wind. He wouldn’t be hard to take down if the need be. Soon, the man has slipped into the shadows of the trees, forcing Hannibal’s hand. He stepped gently out of the car and stalked after the stranger into the dark.

The plan was simple. He was going to follow, he was going to watch, and see how it all unfolded from the safety of the shadows. He was only to intervene if Stiles’ or the dog’s lives were put in danger. That was his only rule, and it is one he breaks unwittingly.

It was the snap of a tree limb by a missed placed foot that betrays him, an accident that almost cost him his life.

He is on his back faster than he can slide into the shadows. His vision blurs and he hears the loud clap of a door slamming shut before the darkness takes him.

 

Hannibal waits for four minutes in the foliage by the garage after he comes too before approaching the house. He knocks three times, but no one answers. Seeing no alternative he slips off his shoes, gratefully, in his cheapest pair of socks. He waits with baited breath before slowly opening the door and closing it quietly behind him. He pads lightly against the wood of Will’s living room, searching the house through for the man and any signs of distress. He takes extra caution to avoid running into the frightened boy trumping around the house.

He leaves quietly through the back door when he is sure no one else is in the house besides him and Stiles.

 

He doesn’t leave. He sits in his car waiting for the inevitable phone call. It comes quicker than he expected, and he quiets a frantic and scared Stiles with calming words through the receiver of his cell phone.  He waits in his car the amount of time it would take him to get here—if he were to break several highway regulations on the way.

He enters the house in a disheveled manner, jacket thrown hurriedly over his pajama shirt. His hair wind tousled as he walked toward the house. Everything done to appear as if he had awoken from a dead sleep, and had hurriedly dressed to assure his friend’s safety—though there was no real danger. It was all for not when he finds Stiles already asleep in the upstairs bedroom, and a bed made hastily for him on the couch.

He forgoes the couch completely, they were terribly conformable, and falls into the bed next to Stiles.

 

Hannibal wakes up with an elbow in his face and a head pillowed on his chest. His arm has fallen asleep under the smooth expanse of stomach pressing it firmly into the bedding. Pale arms entrap him, grabbing him each time he attempts to finagle his way out of the boy’s clutches. The body on top of him, hot like the summer days of his youth, enveloping him in a warmth and fondness he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Finally, he gives up his hopes of escaping the small bed and instead chooses to admire the boy that was laid upon him. Everything about the boy is delectable: from the firm sinewy muscles of his of his biceps to the smooth underside of his flanks. He had the kind of thighs would taste wonderful stuffed and braised in a nice Chianti sauce. The kind of ribs that would go nice with garlic and rosemary and cooked slow over an open flame. Lying there he fantasizes freely about what he would love to with the boy laying defenseless on top of him. He pulls himself away, eventually, before he can make any hasty decisions because Stiles is more than a nice meal.

It takes a few minutes to find something suitable to wear from the truly atrocious disorganized chaos that is Will’s closet. He presses the creases out of the pants and a plain grey shirt he deems suitable with the iron he found in the closet, taking the time to press Stiles’ clothes too. Ironing clothes takes more time than he is willing to give before he has had his morning coffee, but he does it anyway.

When he is done, he goes out to collect the mail and the morning newspaper. It is nice sunny day. People are out. None of them resembling the man from last night in the slightest, so he smiles and waves at the neighbors who pass by on their morning strolls, holding the papers under his arm. He places them on the table, slipping his own elegantly made letter into the fold, as he takes out the frying pans.

 

Stiles finds him in the kitchen as he is frying up the last of his postman for breakfast. The boy has already slipped in to the clothes Hannibal had taken the time to press for him and he commodores the table. He also steals Hannibal’s cup of coffee off the table. Usually he wouldn’t tolerate such rudeness, but he lets it go this once. He is also certain Stiles is checking out his butt, but he lets the boy have that as well.

They ease into a friendly banter into over breakfast. Hannibal notices they work well together. There is a certain give and take. Stiles gives him a nervous glance when their banter wanders broach into the land of the night before, and Hannibal gives him the comfort of reminiscing over long school days. Slowly prodding and poking at the truth, testing their boundaries of trust, and unraveling the truth one piece at a time. He thinks that maybe that is why Stiles is just as special as Will. Or, maybe it is how much control Stiles gives him over their conversation when he finally admits the truth.

 

He watches the boy stumble out the door, limbs flailing in haste to get out the door. Pocketing the elegant letter Hannibal had placed in with the others earlier in the morning. He smiles to himself. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the chase before the kill. He could wait just a little bit longer. It won’t be longer anyway.


End file.
